My Birth Story: A Late Babe, Supportive Birth Team, & Rockstar Mom (Me!)
“Ask me about my birth experience” is a rare thing for a new mom to say, but it’s all I can talk about four months later. And it’s all thanks to the people who were at my side (and down at my straddled feet).
As first-time parents coming off of a recent miscarriage, my husband and I had a lot of excitement tinted with apprehension about what the pink double lines would mean for us. What if this didn’t last? Would we jinx it by telling people?
At each prenatal appointment, I would hold my breath under the coolness of gel listening for that swooshy, 165-bpm rhythm.
Despite lingering doubts, I had an amazing pregnancy with no complications (or even nausea!) I felt like my best self, and the most confident I’d ever been in my body. My hubs frequently complimented my rounded figure, put up with my gigantic body pillow, and came to every prenatal appointment.
Though my husband was skeptical at first, we hired a doula to help us navigate the land of birthing decisions and prenatal care. Shortly after our first discussion with her, I designed a graphic birth plan with cute icons saying things like, “Epidural — Yes!” and “Delay cord clamp.” I wanted all of the control, comfort and support possible.
Then 40 pounds and 41.5 weeks later, I was mentally and physically over it.
The last few weeks of pregnancy were the hardest. With every text message asking if I had started labor, I would grow more unsure if I would ever not be pregnant.
The baby was in a five-star, all-you-can-eat-amniotic-fluid resort and wasn’t checking out anytime soon.
At nearly 42 weeks, my cervix was hardly dilated despite the tips and tricks: daily walks, ball bouncing, stretches, and choking down dates in every recipe fathomable.
So, push came to shove (literally), and we scheduled an induction. The rough timeline:
Wednesday: Went into hospital to start mechanical induction, but there was a miscommunication about scheduling. My midwife did a big-ol’ membrane sweep and sent us home.
Thursday: Went back to hospital at 6 p.m. and started foley bulb at 6 cm dilation, thanks to the sweep. To my utter surprise, the nurse hooked me up and said, “Woah! You’re having big contractions. Do you not feel them?” (Apparently I am immune to pain…?)
I walked around the halls with my doula, doing squats during my hard-to-feel contractions. Then by 10 p.m. it was time to sleep while the foley bulb did its work before our big day. In the middle of the night, I woke up from big contractions and thought it was go-time, but it was just the foley bulb makin’ moves.
Friday: Woke up ready to start pitocin at 5 a.m. By 11 a.m., I wasn’t so pain-immune and accepted the epidural (aka best thing ever). We were sure we’d be having a Friday baby!
But baby boy wasn’t responding so well to the big contractions and his heart rate would dip, so we had to slow-roll the pitocin. By the evening, it was time to do practice pushes while my midwife repeatedly checked my cervix and twisted the baby’s turned head. “You’re strong at pushing! This should go quickly when we’re ready for real,” she exclaimed.
But then my strength dwindled, and the clock was ticking. It was time to bring in the big guns — the on-call OB.
Our Friday crept by, baby-less.
Saturday: Once the OB arrived from her daughter’s dance recital (what a finale, right?) I started pushing around 12 a.m., severely worn out but determined. We were hopeful that baby would come out — I was strong, and he was so close.
I pushed for two hours. Every time a contraction would hit, I would toss my oxygen mask to the side, grab my bent quads, and yell, “Let’s go!” at my birth team. My doula even tried tug-of-war with me on the other end of a bedsheet (she ended up injuring her knee from this, by the way). Baby would start to move, then slip right back into the birth canal, taking my hope along with him.
When I was nearly ready to give up and keep the baby inside me forever, the OB said we had the option to do a vacuum (suction). She explained we would have three tries before needing a C-section, and I agreed. We heard the “pop!” of the suction breaking after the first try, and I knew we needed to make it happen. Baby was so close. I could do this. WE could do this.
My husband, down near the action, was cheering me on like I was inches from the finish line of a neck-to-neck race. There was hair. There was a head.
“Puuusssssshhhhh!!!!!!” Two contractions later and all of my physical energy spent, my doula yelled, “Reach down! You’re going to pull him out!”
I stuck my hands down and felt the slippery, warm human that had been so eagerly awaited by many. And he was mine. I did it. WE did it. At 2:17 a.m., husband and I both with tears in our eyes, I felt the biggest love explosion fill the room.
Baby latched right away and nursed for 45 min. before we all slept for the best four hours of sleep we’ve ever had. Husband and I scarfed down some amazing hospital french toast and took turns cuddling our new bundle.
We were doing it. We were parents.
Sunday: We were discharged by 10 a.m. and on our way to the most nerve-wracking, 7-minute drive ever. I was feeling unstoppable, even with my waddle and lingering bump.
I couldn’t have done it, let alone felt so powerful, without the birth team I had.
To a husband who was so encouraging in the delivery room that he was deemed “moula” (man-doula),
To a doula who sacrificed her sleep (and knee) to help me power through the weekend,
To my midwives and doctor who kept me informed, asked consent before making decisions, and fought for what they knew I could do,
To the L&D nurses who played along with my sense of humor during such a long, exhausting time,
And to my sweet bundle of joy that is living his best life on the outside, whether he likes it or not,
Thank you.
This was written Spring 2020 (aka at the start of the pandemic). If you didn’t have the support you envisioned or needed, I see you.
